<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Entre Nous - Moments 1984-2011 by Greenlikethesky</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202382">Entre Nous - Moments 1984-2011</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlikethesky/pseuds/Greenlikethesky'>Greenlikethesky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Formula 1 RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Drabble Collection, Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:33:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,353</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202382</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlikethesky/pseuds/Greenlikethesky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alain and Ayrton drabbles: moments shared, memories, reflections. Set in the same universe as Entre Nous (between us).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alain Prost/Ayrton Senna</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Spies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted to Livejournal in 2011</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Spies</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>And if we don’t hide here, they’re gonna find us, and if we don’t hide now, they’re gonna catch us where we sleep...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Alain’s getting more paranoid these days. Ayrton’s reckless in everything he does, and that includes kissing him in the paddock. He always laughs and tells Alain no-one’s around, lips silencing Alain’s protests, warm hands sneaking into his racesuit.</p>
<p>But Alain can’t help worrying. One day, someone will see them; a reporter, a marshal, a fan with a camera. And then what?</p>
<p>Alain’s pretty sure that Ron knows what’s going on and he’s turning a blind eye to it, but if it became public knowledge what would he be forced to do?</p>
<p>Alain can imagine what he’d say, words about sponsors and investors, and all the while avoiding his eyes. Alain’s been sacked before for messing around within a team, he knows how the conversation goes.</p>
<p>Then again, he’s not going to stop. He always protests, weakly, and then lets Ayrton kiss him anyway. Sometimes he thinks he wants for them to be caught.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dakota</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Dakota</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Remember anew what happened to you... I wonder if we’ll meet again, talk about life since then</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes Alain gives in to the memories.</p>
<p>Alone in his office, where there are no links to motor-racing; no trophies, no photos. No links at all, apart from a bright yellow helmet.  He sits quietly, remembering.</p>
<p>The first time they met in 1984. He had to drive Ayrton to the Nurburgring for a charity race they were both taking part in. On the way they talked about normal things; the weather, the songs on the radio, and Alain noticed Ayrton’s freckles, his fingers worrying at a plaster on his hand. The way he lowered his gaze whenever Alain looked away from the road to meet his eyes.</p>
<p>Alain says in interviews he never thinks anymore of their feud, but that’s a lie. He remembers Suzuka, both times; guilt for the first and anger for the second, still white-hot twenty years on.</p>
<p>Mostly though, he remembers better times. Their first kiss; Imola, drunk and illicit. Their first... in Monaco, after an argument.</p>
<p>And the last... Paris, in the winter of 1993.</p>
<p>And then of course, inevitably, the last time he saw him. Just the two of them, in an empty garage on May 1st.</p>
<p>And Alain wishes he could make that a good memory. Wishes that he had said something profound, something fitting. But all he had been was uncomfortable. He made an excuse, left in a hurry, because he thought Ayrton should get ready for the race.</p>
<p>Sometimes he wishes he could forget.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Wake Me Up (Before You Go-Go)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Wake Me Up (Before You Go-Go)</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Come on baby let's not fight, we'll go dancing everything will be all right</em>
</p>
<p><em><br/></em>“This was a bad idea.” He shouts over the music.</p>
<p>I only roll my eyes, smile, take a drink from my glass. I’m not worried. He’s not going anywhere. I got him this far, into the club.</p>
<p>“It’s too busy. Someone is going to notice us.” He shouts again.</p>
<p>“There are other drivers here.” I shout back, shrugging. I look around; Gerhard talking to Thierry, Nigel busy ignoring Nelson, Riccardo standing with Michele and the other Italians. Even Hunt is here, although he never misses a party.</p>
<p>He says something else which I don’t hear.</p>
<p>“What?” I lean forward.</p>
<p>“I said I don’t care. We must be crazy.” He has to press his mouth against the side of my face to make himself heard. I hear what he says this time, but familiar, gorgeous little shivers are running down my neck. He’s forgotten how much I like when he kisses me there.</p>
<p>“What?” I say again, devious. He can’t see me smiling.</p>
<p>“I  <em>said</em>-” His lips are warm, soft. The music is vibrating through me, the drink has gone to my head. I turn, and catch his lips. Alain kisses back. He always does. He’s drunk too.</p>
<p>It’s only for a moment; someone bumps into us and we break apart.</p>
<p>I look and it’s Nelson.</p>
<p>“<em>Shit</em>.” I hear Alain say clearly, over a lull in the music.</p>
<p>Neither of us meet Nelson’s eyes. We’re waiting for the cruel comment, the jeer, the knowing laugh - one of them or all of them.</p>
<p>But he just raises his eyebrows. He looks almost sad. It’s hard to see properly in the light, though.</p>
<p>A pretty girl appears behind him, tugs at his hand and he turns away without a word. Alain does the same to me.</p>
<p>“Can we go now?”</p>
<p>I nod.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Falling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Falling</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace, it's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“On the left is Ayrton Senna; on the right is Alain Prost...”</p>
<p>
  <em>This has always been my favourite part of the race. The serenity of the empty grid, clear of squabbling reporters, the serious faces of mechanics. Just us, in our cars. Fingers on the steering wheel, holding, not grasping. Nothing ahead but five lights, and the track.</em>
</p>
<p>“Behind Senna is Mansell, behind Prost is Berger – the grid is clear – the lights GO!”</p>
<p>
  <em>And then we go. The acceleration is like a punch, a beautiful kick, like easing back into an old routine. My hands know what to do, graceful through the gears. It’s like being welcomed home.</em>
</p>
<p>“And Senna sprints away, but Alain Prost takes the lead! It’s happened; Alain Prost has taken the advantage”</p>
<p>
  <em>And then there’s red to my left, alongside, and ahead. I’m almost sad. Because I know I’ll do it now.</em>
</p>
<p>“Senna is trying to go through on the inside”</p>
<p>
  <em>I let the steering wheel slip through my fingers. Take my foot off the brake. Smother the accelerator.</em>
</p>
<p>“AND IT’S HAPPENED IMMEDIATELY, THIS IS AMAZING!”</p>
<p>
  <em>We touch.</em>
</p>
<p>“Senna goes off at the first corner, but what has happened to Prost?”</p>
<p>
  <em>The world turns around. Alain turns with it, spun, looking back at me. There’s no colour or sound or sense, just us. Facing each other from our cockpits.</em>
</p>
<p>“He has gone off too. Well, that is amazing, but, I fear, absolutely predictable.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Then everything comes back. The car smashes and bounces over the gravel, lurches through the brown wall of dust. My heart is jarring, my hands tight now on the wheel. I would see white knuckles if not for my gloves. But then I’m still, the car stops. Sun comes in through the dust. I am alright, unhurt. I get out of the car.</em>
</p>
<p>“Yes, and that makes Ayrton Senna World Champion this year...”</p>
<p>
  <em>I don’t look back for him.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Holiday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Holiday</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>One day to come together to release the pressure, we need a holiday</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1988 – Mid-season testing, Paul Ricard Circuit</strong>
</p><p><br/>
‘I’m glad you came.’ Alain says, glancing away from the road for a moment.</p><p>‘There are no good hotels around here. Middle of nowhere.’ Ayrton shrugs, looking out of the passenger window from behind dark glasses. He looks bored, and hot, fanning himself with the brim of his cap. ‘I’m not paying for some tiny room when your place is free.’</p><p>Alain only smiles. ‘You could have stayed in the motorhome with everyone else.’</p><p>‘I hate sharing a shower.’</p><p>‘I’ve got some bad news for you, then.’ Alain grins, and is rewarded with the hint of a smile, for the first time. ‘You know, we don’t have to be at the track until tomorrow morning. We can do something this afternoon, if you want?’</p><p>‘What do you mean? You hate when we seem obvious.’</p><p>‘I hate when you kiss me in the paddock with photographers crawling around.’ Alain rolls his eyes.</p><p>‘I’ll stop.’</p><p>‘I didn’t say stop. And this is different. I don’t think anyone around here has even heard of Formula One. We’re in the ‘middle of nowhere’, no?’</p><p>Ayrton smirks. ‘What is there even to do around here?’</p><p>‘Let’s see.’</p><p>In the end, there is a village, surrounded by fields full of sunflowers. Alain parks the car in a small square, containing only them, patches of sunlight and a stray cat. They pass grey stone cottages, a church, shops with shutters closed over the windows, Ayrton walking amiably beside him.</p><p>Alain can almost pretend that there is no team, no growing rivalry, that it it just them; two people on a sunny afternoon, looking for something to eat, somewhere to wander around. He has to stop himself reaching out for Ayrton’s hand.</p><p>They find an open boulangerie, empty apart from the elderly female proprietor. Alain pays for some butter and cheese and baguettes. He is turning away, when a dusty bottle of wine is pressed into his hand by the woman. She seemed to have pulled it from thin air.</p><p><em>‘Bonne chance...</em>’ Her eyes flick to Ayrton, who stands away from the counter, reading posters stuck inside the window. ‘...<em>dans le Grand Prix.’</em></p><p>Ayrton’s head turns at that, and Alain’s heart skips a beat. The woman bustles into the back room without another word.</p><p>‘No-one’s heard of Formula One?’ Ayrton is grinning.</p><p>‘Come on.’ Alain says, shaking his head. ‘Unbelievable...’</p><p>‘I don’t think she has any journalist friends, don’t worry.’ Ayrton nudges him as they walk back to the car. He seems much happier.</p><p>They sit amongst the sunflowers and have a makeshift picnic, as best they can with no cutlery; tearing the baguettes with their hands, sharing swigs from the bottle.</p><p>Accepting the wine was probably a bad idea, Alain thinks afterwards, as Ayrton kisses him.<br/>
<strong><br/>
</strong></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Someday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Someday</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>In many ways, they’ll miss the good old days, someday</em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>They’re on the podium, the three of them. Gerhard supposes he should feel awkward, but he can’t see the point. Alain looks awkward enough for all three of them. And jealous. Avoiding eye contact, brushing imaginary specks off his Ferrari badge as Ayrton receives his trophy on the step above him.</p><p>Ayrton’s no better. Spraying champagne over Gerhard with too much enthusiasm, hugging him, letting Alain know exactly how it stands now. As if Alain didn’t already know.</p><p>Gerhard lets Ayrton hug him, returns the smile, but only up to a point. He’s not interested in getting in the middle of this.</p><p>He likes Ayrton, a lot, likes being with him, as a teammate and a man. He certainly likes everything they’ve done so far. But he knows in the back of his mind he’s the rebound. The rebound driver for McLaren, and the rebound teammate for Ayrton.</p><p>In a perfect world it wouldn’t be that way. He could have Ayrton to himself, make him happy. But Gerhard can be honest; if Ayrton could choose, Gerhard doesn’t think he’d choose happiness. Ayrton needs fire. Whatever happens between them, it can only be nice. It can’t compete with the hate and love and passion and intensity that Ayrton shared with his last teammate.</p><p>Gerhard wishes Ayrton could settle for nice, for happy. But he knows that’s a pointless wish, so he lets it go. He’ll just enjoy it while he can.</p><p>Alain is turned away from them, spraying his champagne over his mechanics below with a grim determination. He is clearly trying not to look at them.</p><p>Gerhard just wants to knock their heads together.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Tears Dry On Their Own</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Tears Dry On Their Own</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>All I can ever be to you is a darkness that we knew, and this regret I got accustomed to</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>1989 - Australian Grand Prix, Adelaide</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It carried on raining, after he’d gone. Raining and raining, the race carrying on outside the motorhome. I was alone in there. I cried, and hated myself for it. I balled my fists, dug my nails into my palms, bit the inside of my cheek. And still cried.</p>
<p>I tried to lie to myself. I tried to convince myself I was crying because I crashed. Because it had made him the champion now, unfairly and beyond any appeal. Because I hated him.</p>
<p>None of that was true. It had nothing to do with Formula One. I was crying for him, and not out of hate. I was crying for us, for the end of us. Crying because we had been together and now we were apart.</p>
<p>Every night we’d spent in a hotel room, every time we’d glanced at each other in a press conference, smiled. Every time we’d argued and then reconciled. Because this time was different. There was no coming back from this, no reconciliation possible.</p>
<p>I was crying because I understood that, finally.</p>
<p>Ron came in. He saw me. I didn’t try to hide my face. He looked at me for a long time.</p>
<p>‘I’m sorry.’ He said.</p>
<p>‘For what?’ I could feel my heartbeat quickening, because it was obvious I was crying about more than losing the race, the championship. I had always thought that Ron didn’t know about us. Now I wasn’t so sure.</p>
<p>‘For... this whole mess.’</p>
<p>It was an answer that could mean anything. But his eyes told me he knew. He’d known all along. God, I must have been stupid to think he didn’t.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Hangin’ on the Telephone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Hangin’ on the Telephone</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>It's good to hear your voice you know it's been so long... I want to tell you something you've known all along</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <strong>-ring ring-</strong>
</p>
<p>‘Oui, bonjour?’</p>
<p>
  <strong>-click-</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>-ring ring-</strong>
</p>
<p>‘Bonjour?’</p>
<p>‘...’</p>
<p>‘Qui est?-’</p>
<p>
  <strong>-click-</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>-ring ring-</strong>
</p>
<p>‘Oui?’</p>
<p>‘...’</p>
<p>‘... Ayrton?’</p>
<p>‘I – I’m sorry.’</p>
<p>
  <strong>-click-</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>-ring ring-</strong>
</p>
<p>‘It’s me. Look, don’t hang up again.’</p>
<p>‘Ok.’</p>
<p>‘What is it?’</p>
<p>‘... I don’t know. I just wanted to... talk.’</p>
<p>‘You – you just want to talk. So you call me and hang up?’</p>
<p>‘Yeah.’</p>
<p>‘Ok. So. What do you want to talk about?’</p>
<p>‘Are you really going to retire?’</p>
<p>‘What? Yes, of course.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t.’</p>
<p>‘What?’</p>
<p>‘Come back.’</p>
<p>‘You really are unbelievable!’</p>
<p>‘I know. But still. Don’t retire.’</p>
<p>‘<em>You</em> know <em>why</em> I’m retiring.’</p>
<p>‘No.’</p>
<p>‘Yes you do. I’m not going to be your teammate again. Ever.’</p>
<p>‘... Nobody said you have to be. There are other teams.’</p>
<p>‘What, like McLaren? A team you’re desperate to leave? I want to be with a winning team or not at all.’</p>
<p>‘... Ok.’</p>
<p>‘Look... why are you really calling me?’</p>
<p>‘For – for this. Don’t retire.’</p>
<p>‘Ayrton.’</p>
<p>‘It... it won’t be the same.’</p>
<p>‘I know. But, you know; things have to change. Nobody can race forever.’</p>
<p>‘Yeah.’</p>
<p>‘Look, I have to go. I... I’ll speak to you again, ok?’</p>
<p>‘Ok. Thanks. I mean, that’s good to know.’</p>
<p>‘Yes it is. I’ll call you back. Au revoir.’</p>
<p>‘Adeus.’</p>
<p>
  <strong>-click-</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 12:51</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>12:51 </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Kiss me now that I’m older, I won’t try to control you</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>19/12/1993 – Bercy Elf Masters Karting – Paris</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>After the race there’s a melee on the makeshift podium; it’s like Le Mans, the whole team gets to go up to receive their trophies. As there are three drivers on each go-kart team, there’s a bit of good natured pushing and shoving amongst them. Alain starts out standing next to Olivier and Johnny, somehow gets shuffled past Damon, and isn’t at all surprised to find himself next to Ayrton as his winner’s trophy is presented to him.</p><p>He holds it aloft, and there is a great cheer from the French crowd. He can sense rather than see Ayrton’s smile, and then there’s a hand on the small of his back, a brief squeeze at his waist. No-one notices in the muddle of drivers.</p><p>The cheers go up again for Olivier’s third place, and Ayrton uses the cover of it to speak.</p><p>‘Didn’t there used to be a rule, for when one of us won?’ He turns his head slightly to Alain, applauding.</p><p>Alain pretends to inspect his trophy, heart hammering. ‘This was not a Formula One race.’</p><p>‘You’re not a Formula One driver anymore. I have to take what I can get.’</p><p>Alain doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t say no either. They carry on applauding.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s cold outside. Alain fastens his coat to his chin, thrusts his hands into his pockets, all the while silently cursing his decision not to drive here. His apartment had seemed much closer in the weak winter sunshine earlier.</p><p>He stamps through the cold, the street empty around him. Everyone else had the sense to drive, clearly.</p><p>There are footsteps behind and Alain doesn’t look for a moment. He doesn’t need to. Suddenly, despite the cold, he feels very warm.</p><p>He stops, turns around, looks at Ayrton. They regard each other for a long moment. There probably are many things he should be thinking instead, but Alain can only find himself thinking the same old thing; how unreal Ayrton looks when not dressed in racing overalls. Just a normal scarf, coat, his breath misting in front of him. Less than an hour ago, they were tearing round a stadium, thrashing the engines of go-karts, while a crowd cheered them on.</p><p>Now they’re just two people facing each other on a cold night.</p><p>‘So. You’re coming, then?’ Alain says eventually. There’s no point skirting the issue.</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>‘Won’t your friend miss you?’ There had been a beautiful blonde girl with Ayrton at the race, sitting with him as he readied his kart. Alain had been exasperated to find he still noticed things like that, still got the smallest amount of jealousy from it.</p><p>‘She understands.’ Ayrton says simply. He doesn’t need to say more.</p><p>Alain starts walking again, but there is an invitation in it, unspoken. Ayrton falls into step alongside him. They come to the main streets; it’s late, no-one is around. There are lights twinkling in the trees, and Alain remembers how near Christmas it is. A stroll on a clear winter’s night in Paris. Five years ago he would have allowed himself to think it romantic.</p><p>They reach his apartment. Alain is thankful that no-one else is home. He fumbles his key from his pocket, fingers numb. As he unlocks the door Ayrton puts his arms around him, and Alain waits for warm lips on his neck, frantic kisses. But it’s just a hug.</p><p>‘Ayrton.’ Alain steels himself for what he’s going to say. ‘I think this should just be... for tonight. ’</p><p>There is a sigh, but nothing else.</p><p>‘I’m glad we’re talking again. I want to be your friend. But I think that should be it.’</p><p>Before, in years gone by, there would have anger at that, sulking, harsh words. But Ayrton only sighs again, holds him a little tighter.</p><p>‘Just tonight, then.’</p><p>The door opens. Alain turns, Ayrton’s arms still around him. He smiles, a little sadly, and Ayrton returns it. They don’t need to say anything else. He finds Ayrton’s hand, and pulls him inside.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Do You Want to Know A Secret?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Do You Want to Know A Secret?</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>God, I couldn’t remember ever being so nervous before. Every race up till then, all through the junior formulas, even the first time I drove an F1 car – the Williams test in ’83 – all nothing compared to that moment.</p><p>It was just a normal drive, a boring long stretch of <em>autobahn</em>. But I was sitting next to him. He wasn’t champion back then, but everyone knew he would be, that year or the next. I knew he would be. Can you imagine? 24 years old, and sitting in the front seat of a car while your hero sits next to you, driving. His hand was almost brushing my leg whenever he changed gear. I couldn’t stop fidgeting, playing with a plaster on my hand. He kept turning to look at me, and I had to look away. I was afraid of him seeing me blush.</p><p>It’s crazy to remember that now. I could barely speak to him. I could only trust myself to talk about the weather. I thought I would give myself away if I said anything else. He must have thought I was the most aloof bastard he’d ever met. Maybe all the problems started then, really, years before anything else did. Me, the blushing rookie - and him, wondering what the hell my problem was.</p><p>I think he was oblivious. Even later, even when we were together, he thought it was just sex. He never got it, never understood that I... Really, for all that intelligence, <em>le Professeur</em>, he wasn’t so smart.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>